Eyebrows
by BlameThePlotBunnies
Summary: Sometimes, even Sherlock's experiments don't go to plan...


John Watson was having a pint with Greg Lastrade when his phone began to ring. It wasn't an unusual occurrence, either having a quick pint with Greg after work, or his phone ringing. Especially not with that ringtone. In fact, his phone ringing with that particular ringtone was an alarmingly regular occurrence. Fishing around in the pocket of his favourite jacket - leather and well worn - he extracted his phone and threw a cursory glance at the caller display. He groaned, offering up a silent plea to whichever god care to listen that WPC Lydia Johns wanted to ask him a favour, or had simply finally worked up the nerve to ask him out. Anything - _anything_ - but what this would invariably turn out to be about.

"What's he blown up this time?" He answered, with a sigh.

Next to him, Greg bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. For a genius, Sherlock Holmes got himself into a remarkable amount of scrapes, out of which his unfortunate, and apparently eternally patient, flatmate had to get him.

"Tell me the worst. Is the place still standing?" John was saying.

Across town, WPC Lydia Johns stood on the curb by her car - a panda - and tried not to laugh at the memory of what she had found when she'd responded to the usual panicked report of explosions from a neighbour of 221b Baker Street. "It's still standing. He hasn't even broken a window. Serious need of a cleaning crew in your kitchen, though." She choked back something that might have been a giggle "Oh, and he's a bit singed."

"Singed?" John asked. Greg gave him a look that could only be construed as 'do I even want to know?' and went to take their empties back to the bar. Clearly they weren't going to be staying much longer.

"You'll see." Lydia smiled "It's nothing to worry about, but I think it won't teach him a thing about experimenting."

"Nothing ever does." John said, a wry smile touching his lips for a second to be replaced by a frown. "Can you stay with him 'til I get back? I shan't be any longer than it takes to find a cab."

"Of course. See you in a few."

John ended the call and got to his feet with a sigh. "Sherlock's blown something up in the kitchen again." He said to Greg as he passed him at the bar, patting him lightly on the back. "So I'll have to get back. Are you coming?"

Greg led him out onto the street by way of an answer, and hailed a passing cab.

When they arrived at 221b Baker Street, they found Lydia still outside, leaning on her bonnet and looking more than slightly bemused.

"What do you know, the place actually _is_ still standing. And with all its windows still in place. I must congratulate Sherlock on his upgrade of sense."

Lydia cracked a grin "Really, John!" She exclaimed chuckling "Seriously though, someone's going to be scrubbing soot off the walls and scraping… well, whatever he was boiling, off the ceiling for a week!"

"It'll be him, I assure you." John replied with a steely glint in his eyes. "Unless… what did you mean, 'singed'? He is alright, isn't he? Lydia?"

Lydia bowed her head and began to shake and for a moment, John was seriously worried, before he realised that the shaking was the result of giggles not shock or sobs.

"What? Lydia! What is it? What's he done to himself?" John demanded, fighting a smile of his own as Lydia fought for control over her giggles, and lost spectacularly.

"Pull yourself together Constable!" Lestrade said, when Lydia's only answer was the renewed giggling.

Lydia did her best, straightening up and pressing her lips firmly together for a moment in an effort to put back on her professional face. "Yes, Sir, Sorry, Sir. It's just-" She paused, trying not to laugh again "Mr Holmes, Sir. He- he- he hasn't got any eyebrows-" She choked out "Sir." Before dissolving into more helpless giggles.

Watson and Lestrade exchanged a look. "I'm surprised it hasn't happened before." John said, lightly, staring up at the windows of his home. Greg nodded mutely, in rather resigned agreement. Lydia continued to giggle.

On entering the flat, the only obvious sign that something interesting - and probably horrifying - had occurred in their kitchen was a linger smell of burning. There was also no sign of Holmes himself, which probably meant he was hiding in his bedroom, hoping John would be deterred from being irritated with him by a flight of steps and a closed door, or had done the off out of one of Mrs Hudson's back windows, knowing that he wouldn't be.

"Sherlock?" John called from the doorway. There was no answer, but that wasn't unusual for Sherlock Holmes. John left the word hanging in the air and waited for it to reach the detective's sizable brain.

"Den, John." The answer came back eventually, as John had known it would.

About to go in and check on him, John paused, wondering if it might be wise to pop his head into the kitchen beforehand, so he had a few well chosen words ready to be deployed immediately.

"You're still here John, I can here your breathing. And you have company - Good evening Inspector! - are you coming in here, John, or have you more thinking to do first?"

John sighed, reluctantly astounded by Sherlock's deductions, as usual. "Should I see what you've done to the kitchen before or after I see what you've done to yourself?"

"Hmm. After, I think."

John made his way into the den and was confronted with the detective lying flat out on the couch, his fingers steepled under his chin and his eyes closed. He was dressed in the same clothes John had left him in early that morning, a washed out t-shirt; pyjama bottoms and an old, somewhat decrepit, dressing gown. There was soot on his nose, his bare feet, and staining the porcelain skin of his hands, and his clothes bore unmistakable signs of being in close proximity to a blast of some kind. Looking at his face, it was all John could do not to laugh. A man's eyebrows are not the most prominent feature of his face, but they are certainly the first thing others notice when they are no longer where they should be.


End file.
